


No Returns

by ShamelesslyPoetic



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Logince - Freeform, M/M, Roman Angst, Roman is a drama queen and spends way too much money on things he doesn’t need, Unreliable Narrator, arguing in public, basically Logan is teasing and our boy has some vague thot thoughts and teases back, cursing, kinda hot make out, logince typical UST, sexual innuendos and vague referencing to the devil’s tango
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23943910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShamelesslyPoetic/pseuds/ShamelesslyPoetic
Summary: A how-to guide detailing the process of shopping in a financially healthy manner.Roman: *yeets the book into a trash can*Alternatively: Roman, a luxury few can afford, likes to be fancy and spend more than his paycheck can take. Logan, his scientist boyfriend, is tasked with reigning him in. Virgil, his emo best friend who doesn’t want to be here, sends them off to the grocery store where they eventually fight, make up and make out.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	No Returns

**Author's Note:**

> First fic on ao3! Woo! I had it first on Tumblr (@shamelessypoetic, come scream at me) but yeah, here it is. Hope you enjoy it! <3

Roman doesn’t have a problem.

It was all the suit’s fault anyway. Delicious tweed suit. Roman would have looked gorgeous in it and put Aphrodite to shame! It was even 50% off... but Logan. Annoying Logan, who constantly nagged about Roman’s spending, continued to haunt his mind and infringe on his agency. Roman was a grown man and he would decide how to spend his money! 

Yet here he was, crying and searching for his keys because Logan had a fucking point. The absolute bastard.

Roman _might_ have a problem. 

Okay, so he had a little spending problem. So what? 

It still didn’t justify Logan being so _harsh_. 

Roman winced at the dramatization, steps going wobbly and uncertain. Logan had merely stated facts, abrasive, blunt facts. And the fact was Roman needed to start taking finances seriously. He shuddered at the thought.

The air pricked at Roman’s eyes and another tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away roughly, stifling a sob. Heels occupying one hand, the artist struggled to find the mark of his key in the door lock.

“You know, it’d be easier if you put the shoes down,” a voice of gravel rasped behind him. 

Roman whirled, disheveled as he was, to his roommate and best friend since college, Virgil Kahale. He turned up the slope of his nose in defiance. “These are Gucci.”

“Gucci makes shoes now?” 

Roman smeared a smile across his face, oily and uneven. “Para-less,” Virgil scowled at Roman’s nickname. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having you back so soon?”

The _other_ incarnation of workaholism smirked up at Roman from the porch stairs, placing an arm around his shoulders and squeezing. “Was worried about you. You left for work at 8 am, and I know you usually finish up at the studio around noon so when you didn’t call me back and I figured you stayed out I called our home phone later but you didn’t pick that up either and I thought…” Virgil dropped his arm, edging out of tension with a nervous laugh. “Actually, I don’t know what I thought.”

“That I wouldn’t look both ways when crossing the street out of sexual frustration?”

Virgil’s face contorted in horror, his moonlight gray eyes flashing. “Don’t!”

“Why? Is it because you’re throwing up or because you’re actually worried ‘bout me?” It came out warm, teasing, but the genuineness of Roman’s question held like a weight on his chest.

“Both,” Virgil said, drawing himself up and sighing as he unlocked the door. “You’re never the same when you and Logan fight.”

“Yeah, well, considering how many times I’ve had to drag you out of your room after one of your and Pat’s rows, that’s not saying much.”

“Ha-di-fucking-ha, Roman.”

“I’m serious!” Roman called, ambling his way through the apartment and trying not to slip on the wooden floorboards. The fishnet stockings covering his feet, the ones he’d worn for Logan a few nights before, were skin-tight and mildly uncomfortable. Roman told himself he still bothered to wear them because they made him feel pretty. But deep down, in the deepest depths of his heart, far _far_ down, he knew the truth. They made him feel closer to Logan. The chemist’s hands had trailed them, had peeled them off of Roman’s skin inch by inch, adoring every revelation with wonderfully passionate, shaking fingers. 

Roman shook his head but his voice still quivered as he called to his roommate, “Did you get the champagne?”

“We have sweet sherry left over in the fridge.” 

“All time _lowly_!” Roman squawked. “What did we say, good wine is essential! Especially when I’ve fought with my darling love!” 

Virgil didn’t answer, too busy unloading groceries, all frugal and composed. Rude. Just rude. Hmph, maybe Logan should have chosen _Virgil_ instead. They’re both misers. And damn it, Roman loved them both so much. 

“Ugh, whatever, I’ll pop back out and get some myself.” He slid out of his crop top in the middle of the living room. Virgil continued his sonnet of clacking cans and rustling rucksacks but Roman yammered on anyway. “And those chocolate truffles, cause they always help me feel better and maybe some smoked salmon, I’ve been craving it.” 

“Are you having a dinner party without me, dearest?” 

Roman froze, suddenly aware of his half-nakedness. And then slowly, ever so slowly, he turned around. 

No. No this wasn’t happening. Roman was hallucinating. Logan could not be standing there, larger than life with _his_ copy of Wuthering Heights and that all knowing smile Roman either felt like kissing or punching away. He wanted to do both. His body, however, was dead set on flinging Roman’s arms around Logan’s neck and whispering apologies and assuagements, amendments, promises, sweet nothings until they both forgot when and how the fight had started. 

“Son of a--!” The artist was saved by the divine power of the stubbed toe, mightily provided by Roman’s Lord and greatest fear, edge of the coffee table’s leg. 

“Virgil!” Roman screeched, holding his horribly injured foot, his life flashing by before him in a series of glaringly stupid and death-defying feats. He should have perished while saving someone from drowning or climbing a mountain. Not like this. “Virgil, what the hell!?”

Logan rushed over to Roman’s side, dropping the book at the table and helping ease him onto the couch. As Roman fanned his chest, recovering from the horror he’d faced, Logan crouched down, massaging the artist’s foot with the same concentration he’d solve a rubix cube. 

Roman melted internally, marvelling at a stray bouncing lock of Logan’s slicked-back black hair. He resisted the urge to tuck it back into place, prying his foot away. 

“I’m fine,” he meant to snap but his voice came out merely a coarse croak as ridiculous tears welled up in his throat again. 

“Thank heavens,” Logan muttered, but an edge of wryness held his voice and a ghost of a smile quirked his lips up. “I’d hate for you to be hurt, love.”

Virgil emerged from the shadows with a cup of coffee in hand, taking his sweet time getting into the living room.

“I hope you don’t mind, Sir sing-a-lot,” he said unceremoniously. “But since you weren’t planning on communicating your feels any time soon I took the liberty of asking Lo to come over.” Arching an eyebrow, his eyes glinted with wicked satisfaction. Roman was going to kill him. “No hard feelings, right?”

“I wouldn’t have hard feelings if you didn’t have them every time you were with Patton!” Roman shot back before starting, whirling to Virgil over the couch. “Wait, you, that whole spiel! You being worried about me!”

“If there’s one benefit to having anxiety, it’s knowing how to fake it,” Virgil intoned, darkly enough to be believable. 

The chemist looked between them. “Falsehood.”

“Was worth a shot,” Virgil took an impassive sip of coffee, pausing only to motion towards the pair with his mug. “You two, solve your issues.”

Roman made a beeline for Virgil’s room but the door slammed shut in his face. All well and good, he didn’t need imprisonment by posters and Tim Burton figurines adding to his misery. 

“Roman?” Logan’s voice rumbled behind him, stiffening the artist’s back. “I didn’t, I had no idea Virgil hadn’t informed you of my arrival...If you aren’t ready to talk…”

“You’re a terrible liar, mi corazon,” Roman turned to him with a sweetly mocking smile. “Much worse than Panic at the everywhere too.”

Logan held up a hand to Roman’s cheek, brushing it with his knuckles. “Can you blame a man for trying, my dear?” 

Roman’s eyes hardened even as he leaned into the touch. “I can blame you for many things, Logan.”

“And here I am at your feet,” Logan pressed closer, something about his smile triumphant in a way that made Roman want to argue. “This is me begging for forgiveness.”

“Why _are_ you here?” Roman took a step forward, planting his hands on his hips. “What do you want, Logan?”

“You,” the chemist whispered. Roman hummed, eyes half lidded as he hid his face in Logan’s palm. In answer, a thumb delicately swept across his cheek. “And to help you sort out your finances.”

“You bastard!” Roman’s eyes snapped open and he sprung away, smacking Logan’s shoulder. “Sweet talking me like that and then you go and--” Amused eyes reinforced Roman’s annoyance and sharpened his voice. “Oh you’re impossible, a robot through and through! You emotionless, cut-throat, tweed suited businessman!”

Logan’s brows bumped along with a confused smile. “Tweed suit?”

“It was hideous!” cried Roman, throwing his arms up as the wretched suit flickered in his mind’s eye. Without any conscious input from him, his face stuffed itself into the chemist’s chest, into the steady thu-thump there. Grateful Logan didn’t visit the lab on Sundays because it always made him smell weird and medicinal like he’d just left a hospital, Roman let the chemist’s familiar oak wood and musky scent soothe him as he mumbled, “I mean, purple cuffs with a striped orange and olive suit? What were they thinking? Where _is_ the fashion police?”

“Hey, guys?” Virgil’s head interrupted, popping out of his door. “I forgot to get some stuff on my way. Here’s a list.” He threw a crumpled ball in Roman’s general direction, giving him an excuse to leave Logan’s side without acknowledging it.

Grimacing as the artist managed to catch the list, Virgil flicked his hand. “And Princey, please put on a shirt before you poke someone’s eyeballs out.”

“Logan’s enjoying the view, aren’t you, babe?”

In response, Logan took off his coat and draped it around Roman’s shoulders. Roman glowered at him, meeting the coffee brown of his eyes in a huff and puff only to melt at the face he so loved and adored. He awoke then, recomposing his furious bravado. “Fine then!” he said to Logan’s upturned brows, the know-it all expression that made Roman feel like Logan knew everything that went through his head. He made for the door, swaying his hips as he walked. “If you guys don’t appreciate me maybe someone out there will!”

Bet they didn’t see that one coming! Ha!

“No!” The two said at once in the same horrified tone, lurching forwards slightly. 

Roman gave a smug smirk, letting the coat fall off his shoulders as he sprinted to his room and threw the closet wide open. Dresses of silk, crop tops of satin and tulle accordion skirts stared back at him matter of factly. Ugh! He had absolutely nothing to wear!

In the car, Roman tried to explain he hadn’t gone through all the trouble of doing his hair, using that expensive concealer, painting his nails and wearing his golden square-toed heels just to find himself in a boring old supermarket that played elevator music and shined drab fluorescent lights but Logan kept his eyes stubbornly fixed to the road.

Roman crumbled the wad of paper making up their grocery list. He wanted to go to Harrods. Didn’t Logan understand that the key factor to making a relationship work was trying to make each other happy? And he only had to drive thirty miles. Like, come on.

“I estimate that it would take less time to run a marathon, love.”

Roman drew himself up, putting as much whine-factor as possible in his voice, “Alright, have it your way!” but when he took a subtle glance at Logan’s face, he found only impassiveness, a machine set to its task. 

The artist followed his gaze to mounds of mirage, glimmering like water under the harsh afternoon sun and disappearing to asphalt as they came closer. Fitting.

Roman leaned back, slouching, before shooting up again, mindful of his posture. He wasn’t going to let Logan make him feel any less fabulous! 

Roman considered his presence a charitable donation to the public as he strode up to the glass doors, leaving the chemist behind. Between them, somehow Logan managed to catch up and open the door for him. 

“Thank you,” Roman said tartly. 

“You’re ever so welcome,” Logan said in turn, voice warm and rumbly. How could the words be mildly mocking and yet his tone so...honest?

Before he could slip and only come to as his arms snaked around Logan’s neck or his hand reached for the other’s on impulse, he strode into the crowd of people behind the doors. 

Logan would find him. 

The steady click-clack of Roman’s heels sounded high and proud, turning heads. Not because his steps wobbled slightly and his chest puffed out, not because he looked odd with those curly hoop earrings or because he’d slightly smudged his glittery eyeliner as Logan watched him. But because he was beautiful. 

With completely genuine, unfeigned confidence, Roman reached for a shopping cart and the back of his hand met warm, dry skin. He dragged his eyes up. God, Logan was tall. Even with Roman’s heels on, he still had to slightly crane his neck to level the chemist’s gaze. 

“Is there a problem?”

“Not at all, my light,” Logan said. “I just don’t want to exhaust you, pushing a cartful of household items around and all.”

Defiantly, Roman wrenched the cart and made his way to the milk section. 

Almond. Rice milk. Half skimmed. Whole fat. So many! How was Roman to choose?

He stepped back for a moment as he plucked one from each rack and put it into his cart, goaded on by Logan’s incredulous stare. The old miser only got the cheapest brands but he’d only rubbed off on Roman in limited ways. So there!

Up to the point he wheeled his cart towards the fruits and vegetables section, Roman hadn’t stopped to think why Virgil would send him to do the house shopping. Roman bought every shiny thing that caught his eye and, in his perpetual state of hunger, usually also bought the store’s snacks out. So for Virgil to take the risk, and he was not a risk-taker, he’d surely plotted some nefarious scheme to get him and Logan to make up. Well, Roman already had it figured out! He was one step ahead! Ha! 

The crisp rustle of Logan’s shirt and, as he got closer yet, his musky aftershave, struck Roman into immobility. Couldn’t a guy reach for some pears in peace?

“You should get those bundled, dear,” said the perpetrator infesting Roman’s days. 

The artist didn’t understand his body’s reaction to Logan’s voice. He’d said the least suggestive thing in the world and still Roman’s toes curled. Or they would have, if they had any room. Dear Zeus, these heels were killing him already. 

It took him a moment to untangle his jumbled thoughts, turning to where a middle aged woman dragged a mesh bag of clearly overripe, spotted pears into her cart.

“The group cost is less by fifteen pence,” Logan declared, all importance and frugality. 

“But these taste better,” Roman rebutted, all shimmer and swagger. “Frankly, quality always comes before price.”

Roman pushed his cart forward, moving from section to section. Logan let him get the caviar and chocolate truffles with no objections. Mildly surprised, the artist turned to his chemist, who still had that blank face. He caught Roman’s gaze and turned up his brows. Roman could almost read his lips before they moved. 

_Can we return to the original list Virgil wrote out now?_

“No,” said Roman out loud, a mumbled huff that was of course just audible enough for Logan’s sharp hearing.

“No what, my love?”

Roman blinked, opting not to dignify that with a response as his face flushed. Not only had Logan been rude enough to _notice_ the way he flustered him but also had the audacity to _comment_ on it. 

At this rate Roman’s face would pop off from the steam building up inside him. He turned around and shit, when had Logan gotten so close again? 

Roman’s arm bumped against the cereal shelf, the cornflakes creating a muffled crackling noise like sandpaper on his jittered nerves. The artist steeled himself, taking a deep breath and pressing back ever so slightly. Was it his imagination or could he really see the veins running along Logan’s neck?

“Can you--?” He gestured between them, hands frantic in their movements, brows furrowed. “Give me some space, please. You’re stealing the air.”

“Logically infeasible.” 

If Roman wanted to date Siri he would have said so, and after, probably sought out an IOS store. Alas. Fated to feel for a literal robot, both in dialect and general behaviour, Roman amended crossly, “You’re stealing my air.”

“Well, my dear, you’ve always taken my breath away,” Logan said, stepping closer. “Don’t you think it was high time for some comeuppance?”

Roman grabbed the cart from where he had it stationed in front of the cereal shelf and pushed it between them, ignoring the way the tires screeched painfully across the floor, ignoring Logan too.

“Stop that,” he growled, malice absent from his voice so that it came out a strangled rasp. “And make yourself useful, Shimono.”

“As you command, my light,” Logan said, the shrill wheels following Roman as he grabbed a Captain Crunch box. “But may I be so bold as to ask, what exactly am I doing?”

“That!” Roman said, dropping the carton box into the cart and throwing his arms up. “Standing there and lounging about like far less clothes are involved!”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Logan said, drawing a disbelieving and offended noise from his boyfriend. “Besides, I’m quite confident you could still come by some garments in the gift store.”

“Don’t you think for one second I don’t recognize this little game you and Virge are playing!” Roman’s voice rose, prickles of tension nipping at his back and shoulders. He shot forward before he could stop himself, jabbing his finger into Logan’s unreasonably solid chest. “You, especially.” Roman looked up fiercely, mounting emotions turning his eyes limpid. “You’re complimenting me and being a gentleman and you’re trying to get on my good side. Flustering me and throwing me off balance. Well, guess what? It’s not going to work!”

Roman expected anything, anything aside from Logan’s softening face and his reaching hand. 

“I apologise if I caused you any discomfort, Roman.” His eyes burned with sincerity. A calculated move from someone who’d spent his whole life planning and learning; a lie if Roman had ever told himself one. 

Searching for the prelude of a mocking smile or the wisps of amusement pushing into Logan’s eyes, he found none. “That was not my intent.” 

Logan took Roman’s hand in his own, thumb tracing leisurely circles on Roman’s skin in a trail starting from the back of his hand to a rhythmic swirl over his inner wrist. Roman’s pulse soared, raising with the goosebumps racing over every inch Logan touched. He could swear the space between them charged with electricity, current ready to zap them both into crisps. 

“It’s okay,” Roman said in a small voice. And then, in an even smaller voice dragging threadily against the roof of his mouth, “I missed you.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” Logan said, a step too far. Roman, being a self-starter and never one to wait on what he wanted, surged up onto his toes and pressed his lips to Logan’s. 

Logan’s answer soothed him, though light and fleeting. They were in public, after all. 

Roman’s brows furrowed in confusion as the hollowness in his chest refused to disperse even when he pressed closer. 

Logan broke the kiss all too soon, appeasing Roman with a soft palm to his cheek.

Roman searched Logan’s eyes, entirely lost and not in the sweeping, elegant hue meeting his gaze. A gaping hole in his chest ate at him, only slightly repaired. He wanted to reach for Logan again, try to close the distance, try to wage a war against the threat of saltwater in his throat. Everything hurt, his arms and face and throat and lungs and heart -- oh how it lurched and spasmed and fell to the pit of his stomach, its weight inadequate, too small for its task. 

But when he kissed Logan the ache dulled into a faint pulse instead of rapidly spreading spikes. His knees shook and suddenly his forehead connected with Logan’s collarbone, who mistook it for a display of affection and stroked his hair. 

Exhausted, swallowing thickly, Roman closed his eyes. A faint chiming sound hung in the air, muffled but unmistakably ringing in Roman’s ears. But they were in the middle of the supermarket, it couldn’t possibly be…a cash register. His head shot up. What had Logan said about a gift shop?

“Oh!” Roman cried out, fixated on a point over Logan’s shoulder. “Look at that, mi amor, you were right!”

Logan frowned but Roman just pushed past him and skipped up to the sliding glass doors, letting himself be welcomed by the wickerwork, ambience and candles emanating strawberry into the air. He loved scented candles! 

Roman’s eyes widened in awe, taking in shelves upon shelves of well, everything! Marble eggs and Russian dolls, tiny statues and gorgeous handmade rugs. 

Roman grabbed an applewood shelf clock, smiling brightly at the gray-haired woman running the shop as a stunning idea sparked into his mind. 

Logan’s voice sliced through the air, momentarily ending the complete sense of harmony that overtook the artist. “Love, what are you doing?”

Roman went for a wickerwork basket he’d place in the baby seat laden with all these beautiful items in time. He’d have to carry that rug though.

“Christmas shopping!”

For a moment, Logan quieted, leaving Roman to sort through some tea sets. “We’re currently in May.”

“So I’m a bit ahead of schedule! That’s never a bad thing!” Roman carefully selected some bamboo tea mats and napkins in a beautiful cream shade, engraved with flowers and scalloped edges. A matching set of coral, sky blue and golden yellow. Roman had to have them. Turning to Logan, he continued his train of thought, “And besides, wasn’t it you who said bulk buying saved both money and time?” 

Roman lowered his voice, sidling up to Logan and giving a playful pout as he ran a finger down Logan’s chest. “And I also recall you saying time is money.” Roman dropped his voice another octave, pressing his rose gold lips to the shell of Logan’s ear regardless of the people littered around them. Because two could play at this game. “Didn’t you, love?”

Logan more or less kept his composure, tone remaining reserved, but his eyes had lidded ever so slightly, the hand around Roman’s wrist tightening. “I did but--” 

Roman giggled, pressing a quick kiss to Logan’s cheek. “Then we’re not disagreeing here.”

The artist flitted from rack to rack, his arm starting to hurt from the weight of the basket. Logan, ever the gentleman, took it from him halfway through. The pile increased with almost each of Roman’s heeled steps and the lady at the register couldn’t help staring at them. Roman conceded they must have looked like an outlandish sight, a sensible black shirt and necktie following around a long-sleeved summer dress, but Roman felt good and that’s what mattered. Now if only Logan could crack his miserable mouth into a smile. 

Unwilling to ruin his being in good spirits, Roman reached for a bookshelf and produced a glossy cover consisting of beautifully arranged miso soup, fried tempura and rounded dumplings. 

“Your mom would really love this cookbook, don’t you think?”

“Darling, books of that kind are reserved for people who aren’t Japanese,” Logan said. “My mother is quite capable of cooking our homeland’s dishes. You can put it down now.”

“I needed to diversify my culinary feats anyway,” Roman replied, carefully nestling the book between all his other artifacts of choice. 

“Since when are you into culinary feats, love?”

Roman inspected a miniature bonsai tree, prodding at its leaves to figure out whether they were organic. “Since now.” He nodded to himself, turning around to place the tree on top of the book. He brushed Logan’s hand, thumbing at the crook of his fist as his voice softened. “And I want to make you something nice the next time you come around.”

“That’s…” Caught off guard by Romans guileless, completely open expression, Logan hesitated, “a really sweet sentiment, dear, but you don’t have to--”

Roman’s eyes lit up, slightly distracted by embroidered paintings of thread as he turned to a stunning blue and green cluster-filled pendant. “Oooh, an eggshell necklace!”

When they finally emerged from the gift shop, Logan let out a sigh like a deflating balloon. 

It all cost a sum neither of them wished to name and as Roman was informed the wicker basket cost an additional three pounds, his ears barely registered the woman saying, “These are all extremely fragile items. No exchanges, no returns.”

But Logan had surely heard, which was precisely the reason his shoulders drooped and his brow held heavy over his forehead, not Roman’s recurring detours. 

“I just think we did wonderfully, Lo! Don’t you?”

Logan gave him a lost look, debating with himself whether he should say something or not. While he waited for him to decide, and simultaneously dreaded the outcome, Roman’s attention caught on quite a ravishing display of tea selections. 

“Look, mi amor! Hibiscus tea!” Roman exclaimed, click-clacking over to the object of his sudden affection. “I adore hibiscus tea.”

Maybe if Roman punctuated his words with his normal pomp and bustle and summoned the fake heat he did during less than pleasant encounters with some sloppy drunk strangers, the soapy taste would eventually turn to a riveting dance of flavours on his tongue. 

“No, you don’t,” Logan deadpanned. “You don’t like it at all.”

“Maybe,” Roman bit his lip, hesitating for a moment. He brightened just as quickly, “But you do! And if we’re gonna compensate for those dreadful days we spent apart, I’m going to need these!” the artist tacked on, almost desperately, as he plucked three boxes into his cart with a high-pitched, “There!”

He turned to Logan who had the cookbook open in his hands, not struggling at all against its giant weight. Or maybe Roman’s arms had just grown really noodly and he needed to get back on the gym wagon.

Logan glanced at a flushed Roman over the book (although from embarrassment or Logan’s apparent strength one couldn’t say) “This book is entirely in Japanese.”

“I can use Google translate and you can help me!” Roman waved his hands about, motioning between them. “It’ll make for excellent bonding time!”

“Roman…”

The way Logan said his name sent shivers down the artist’s spine, but the unpleasant kind chilling his bones to the marrow because of its lacking emotion and height in exasperation. Logan was more often than not exasperated with him but usually it was the good kind known to end up in ways Roman only encouraged. Other times it was a fond annoyance at Roman’s various and not always accidental attempts to drive Logan right off his rockers. He liked that he could rile him up and he liked learning Logan’s nuances. This was not one of them; Logan’s face held only plain frustration. 

He couldn’t bear it. His anger Roman would deal with but never his disappointment. 

So Roman averted his gaze to chrome gadgets and a lonely minimum wage worker whose stand but only stood to gather dust. Well, Roman couldn’t have that. 

“Wait, mi amor, look!”

“What?” Logan responded, a tad impatiently. “What is it now?”

“That coffee maker!” Roman slapped a hand to his chest, completely captive as the metal’s gleam reflected in his eyes. “It looks absolutely gorgeous!”

The employee perked up like a puppy whose owner just came home. “It’s made of authentic chrome, sir!”

“Did you hear that?” Roman turned to Logan with a beaming smile, grabbing his hand as he teemed on the edge of excitement. “Come on!”

As he tugged, Logan stood stock still for a moment but even as Roman’s breath hitched he didn’t turn, only let the grip on Logan’s hand tighten. The artist risked a momentary glance backwards in which he slowly dragged his eyes up their conjoined hands to the bands of muscle covered by Logan’s sleeve, the curve of his shoulder and then finally his eyes. Unreadable. 

“This coffee machine is quick and easy to use!” the store employee said as the couple approached. “You just pop your flavour of choice in here and voila! Starbucks quality coffee.” His hair fell into his face as he patted the top of the gadget. “Normally this bad boy sells for about 70 pounds.”

Roman waited in eager anticipation, his ears knowing what came next. His whole body leaned forward like a flower drawn to the sun, feet angled, eyes enamored, squeezing his and Logan’s interlaced hands tighter. 

“Today it’s thirty percent off, selling at just 40 pounds!”

“I’ll take one!” Roman burst out, breathless. “In fact, I’ll take two! I can give one to Mamá for Christmas!”

“Just wait a moment,” Logan interrupted, pulling Roman back by their joined hands a bit less gently. “Didn’t you do enough Christmas shopping at the gift store, dear?”

“But Lo!” Roman whined, frantically darting glances between the slightly befuddled employee and Logan. “Can’t you see? It’s a bargain!”

As Roman tugged his hand, Logan let go, their palms grazing for just a moment. “Only if you need one, Roman.” 

“But I do, of course I do!” Roman said, giving the employee a short smile. “I’m always drowsy in the morning, this is the answer! My mornings will be filled with productivity from now on! I can finally stop being such a night owl! I’ll take one!”

“No, you won’t.” That icy tone was back with a vengeance, still levelled and poised as ever but Roman knew something burned beneath the surface. “Roman, I love you, you know I do.” His voice contrasted with the words. It hurt to hear him say it like that. Like a reluctant admission of defeat, or some excuse for a dose of tough love. “But I’m not just letting you throw 80 pounds away when you can’t even afford it.”

“I can, Lo!” Roman cried, body unsteady and jittery as it warred on whether to move towards Logan or that coffee machine. “I _can_ afford it! Easily!”

“You don’t have eighty pounds right now on top of all the things in your cart.”

The employee’s brow furrowed, his affable air vanishing as a professional coldness took over. “Do you or do you not have the means to pay for this transaction, sir?”

“Yes I do!” Roman said, reaching into his purse and producing a blue rectangular card that gleamed in the fluorescent lights like a brandished sword. “I, I do because I have this!” 

Logan’s voice dropped as his eyes widened. He decided for Roman’s hesitating body, drawing nearer, his words a hiss. “Didn’t Virgil agree to confiscate that from you?” 

He raised his voice as the employee peered at them. “Terribly sorry, we’re just having a bit of a misunderstanding.” Lower again. What was he so afraid the words would show? “Roman, give that card to me.”

He’d already embarrassed Roman by refusing him this. Why backtrack when he’d gotten them there?

“No!” Roman pulled back, venom seeping into his voice as it rose into a high, indignant lilt. “You have no right to tell me how to spend my money!”

“I’m only trying to help,” Logan said, snatching the card and filing it away into his pocket. “This is for your own good, Roman.”

“I don’t need your help!” Roman’s face flushed an angry crimson, rib cage rising and falling rapidly. “You’re the one who needs help more like it! Help in getting a life! All you care about is work, work, work!” He ran a hand through his hair, turned a scowl like icicles on the chemist. “For once would you just have some fun? Would you do one thing just because you want to? You act like you’re so in control but you’re totally obsessed, and you talk and walk like a portable encyclopedia!”

Logan’s turn to step back in astonishment came. But there wasn’t any surprise on his face. Roman’s lip curled back over his teeth as he felt the rise of something hot and molten up his throat. A ringing sounded in his ears, high and mighty just like the way Logan judged him. Well, if it’s judgement Logan wished to cast then let the orchestra begin and roll the fucking drums. 

“What exactly are you trying to achieve here?”

“Let me buy that coffee machine!” Roman’s voice, no longer encumbered by the knowledge other people existed, teetered on the edge of hysteria.

“Roman, you don’t need it!” Logan shook his head, arms crossing over his chest as if to ward off the lashes from Roman’s words just like he did that time he’d called the chemist emotionless. “And what’s more, you don’t need two of them! What’s wrong with you?”

Roman burned. “Nothing’s wrong with me!” He turned to the store employee, calling over his shoulder as his beam of focus tunneled and all else blurred around him from the sides. His head was pounding too hard. “I’ll take it! And the seasonal assortment of flavours too!”

“Roman, no!” Logan’s hand closed over Roman’s lithe wrist as he tried to reach for his pocket. If Logan could feel Roman’s fluttering pulse in his grip, why didn’t he realize his pain? Why didn’t he hold him close? End this fight and whisper that it would be okay into his ear? 

“Let go of me!” Roman screamed, pulling. His voice broke, resembling a sob in pitch and heat. “Logan, let go of me!”

Logan’s iron grip softened momentarily as he pulled Roman against his chest, taking his other hand as a sound that was both sob and snarl erupted from Roman’s throat. “Logan!”

“Stop that, people are staring.”

“I don’t care! Let go!” Roman pulled more roughly, teeth clattering as he shook. He clenched his jaw, gritting down. “Let! Go!”

“Sir!” 

Roman’s head snapped to the side as a deep voice cut through the air. The purple of his eyeliner ran down his eyes, mingling with the small block spots in the edges of his vision as he sniffed. Logan’s hands hadn’t moved but his grip was so gentle that Roman could easily pull back now. He didn’t. Faced with baffled and some even outright disgusted gazes, Roman wanted to hide in his boyfriend’s chest, the same he’d been pulling against, and never leave his side again.

Logan’s hands slipped back. Roman barely managed not to collapse against him as his arms dropped. 

“Is this man bothering you?”

“N-No,” Roman swallowed, looking from the heavy-browed security guard to Logan as his throat dried. He licked his lips, wrung his fingers together and whispered his words out hoarsely. “No, he’s, he was just…”

“Leaving,” Logan finished for him, adjusting his tie and collar. “I was just leaving.”

The artist almost yelped, reaching out for Logan as he stepped away from the frame of Roman’s arms. “Wait!” 

A sharp, bitter taste flooded his mouth as he gripped Logan’s hand. His hands, they shook. His eyes, they watered. His heart, it shattered. He could barely breathe through the swelling in his chest. All notions of sales and coffee machines fell from Roman’s mind. He couldn’t let Logan go. Not like this. 

“Where are you going?” he managed, barely controlling the gasp, the unsteadiness quavering his voice. “What-” A deep breath blocked, he could only wheeze, “Does this mean that you’re--?” 

“No.” Roman expected Logan to say it ardently, to say he would never but the word fell from him unwillingly, like he struggled at its truthfulness, which maybe meant he didn’t _want_ it to be true. And if that was the case then why did Roman even try? Why did his desperate hold strengthen? 

“ _Please_ ,” he tried to beg, but all that came out of him was a gasp. 

“We’re quite obviously lacking in communication here, so I…” Logan _hesitated_ and Roman almost cried out. He leaned forward, he breathed, he was _alive_ , but too soon the fantasy exploded into jagged shards that cut deep into Roman with the chemist’s next words as he pressed the credit card back into the artist’s hand. “I guess I’ll just let you get on with it.

“Logan, d-don’t,” Roman found his tongue. It unglued from the roof of his mouth, letting out a wet set of rushed words. “Don’t leave me!”

Logan looked back at him, plagued, hurt. Why? Why did he look at Roman like that? It wasn’t fair!

“Fine then!” Roman jumped back as if Logan had electrocuted him. His palm burned. He half expected to look down and find rising blisters on his skin. Logan’s expression didn’t change but Roman blinked and he’d reached the glass doors. 

“Fine! I don’t need you anyway!”

The words had fallen from him frail even with the shuddering resentment boiling inside him. His blood stewed in fury and he gripped the shelf so hard the tip of his nail broke off. 

And then he was crying again. 

Silent tears stung Roman’s face, ruining his make up as he struggled not to reach up and run his hands down his face. And then the card was tossed into his purse and he was leaving lines where his fingers roughly pressed into his skin, smearing his hands with the tree bark brown of his foundation. 

In the washroom, with words like wretched and pathetic and awful dominating his mind, he whispered ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ over and over again.

Logan would have been an angel if he came right back, realised he’d made a horrible mistake by leaving Roman a puddle on the hard tiles of the mall’s washroom floor and held him up, saved him just by wrapping his arms around him and pulling him into that musky aftershave. Roman would be a saint and let him win every argument from then on if only he would come back. Logan would anchor his clarity. Logan would tie the chasm in his chest. Logan would drive him to insanity. 

The artist’s eyes snapped open. 

No, he couldn’t let that happen. On shaky legs, he stood up and took hold of his heels. He pushed out of the stall, splashed cold water on his face and ignored the niggling at the back of his neck telling him people were staring. He didn’t need the make up, just as he didn’t need Logan. His eyes met him in the mirror: the eyes of someone lying to himself, dull, dead, devoid of their usual light. How could his eyes shine unless something bright burned behind them? They couldn’t. But he could bear it. 

He strode out in long strides with his head held high, reclaiming his cart. Some items had gone missing, including his chocolate truffles. Roman looked around and bit his lower lip till he tasted a coppery tang. 

Fine! 

The artist made his way back to all the sections he wanted to revisit. He hadn’t been able to get champagne with the old miser watching -- Roman winced -- so he’d saved the best items for last. No part of him had anticipated things would go this wrong though. He had a sudden epiphany, hand hovering frozen over the golden chocolate wrappers. Him and Logan, they’d be making out in some storage room at an unseemly time, letting out the last of their pent up emotions in the physical contact and an entirely different, much more pleasant burn would overtake Roman. He’d nip with his clever teeth and breathe in and Logan would _love_ it. 

Shaking his head to rid it of the offending image, he savagely thrust two boxes of the truffles in his cart. Roman couldn’t think of that now. But when was thinking about Logan ever his choice?

More often than not, they caused each other heart ache. Roman got sick-to-his stomach, pounding head, breathless sobs heartache. But could either of them really do better? 

Roman didn’t even try for a fight this time. No, _he_ couldn’t. And if Logan decided he could, well, Roman could love him and let him go at the same time. 

Part of him knew he was being irrational but all the floating parasites in his head tucked that reasonable voice into a distant, inaccessible corner of his mind.

Numbly, Roman reached for the champagne bottle, his fingers closing over the throat and nearly slipping. His head swayed. He gripped the base and with a colossal effort, hefted the bottle onto the cubby. 

His eyes caught the coral salmon an aisle away at the fish section and the quail’s eggs he’d singled out from all the other kinds on his way there. Was it just a coincidence that they were the most expensive of the eggs in stock?

After getting the two items, Roman wobbled his way to some frozen pizza, reaching out for one of the vegetarian ones. 

_You don’t need that. You could fix it up at home for practically nothing._

Roman shook his head. 

_Vinegar works on clothes just as efficiently as that overpriced fabric softener._

Roman shoved the fabric softener into his cart with such force that the tea set rattled.

 _What do you need a new knife for just because it has flower engravings? Yours work perfectly fine._

Roman wanted to stab something. Preferably that voice in his head but he loved the one who owned it too much. 

_You don’t need another bottle of wine, Roman._

“Stop it!” the artist yelled out loud. God, he really was going crazy. Sheepishly rubbing his nose, he returned the bottle of rosé to its rack. His fingers slid away from the glass material and he blinked, once, twice. He didn’t want it anymore. 

Roman sighed and trudged forward, half-leaning on his cart, till he got to the cash register after seemingly endless rows of incredulous old ladies and ogling little children.

The redhead name-tagged Corrine greeted him with a bright smile. “Throwing a nice dinner party, huh?”

_Are you having a dinner party without me, dearest?_

Roman looked down at the mechanical movement of his hands over the rod separating his items from the customer’s behind him. He glanced back to the impatient row of bystanders and back down.

Canned sauerkraut? When had he gotten _that_ ? He hated it. Wait, _oysters_? What demons had he been possessed by to get those pearl-promising scammers?

The rest of the luxury foods Roman had scrounged on a whim stared up at him questioningly and they felt a thousand times worse than the human eyes boring into the back of his skull. A realisation hit him like Remus’ toy sledgehammer. Because when you have a hammer, everything is a nail, Remus had explained. Hammers and nuisances for brothers aside, Roman suddenly felt ill. Sick to his stomach, migraine pounding through his head, teary-eyed ill. 

“I, I actually need to go,” Roman heard himself say. “Now.”

“But your,” Corrine faltered, obviously surprised as she gestured to Roman’s would-be things. “Your groceries!”

“I don’t need them!” Roman cried out, his breaths finally filling up his lugs more than a quarter-full. “I don’t need any of it!”

He stumbled away from the atrocious, overpriced items, with a purpose. He had to find Logan. 

Roman ran blindly through aisles, searching for his boyfriend in a whirlwind of dizziness with his heart pumping, his chest screaming, his mind running in circles as his hands slid up to his hair and he found himself at the doors again. He could hardly care about the staring anymore. 

“Excuse me?” a teenager sidled up to him, nearly swallowed whole by their baggy sweater. A pop of color amidst their gray-clad clothes caught his eye. Their hair was brown with magenta streaks. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes!” said Roman with a wobbling flourish, ears drawing sharp feedback that nearly blocked out the kid’s voice. “No! I, I mean...I lost him, I can’t find him,” he hiccuped. Had he swigged from that champagne on his way to the cashier? He couldn’t remember. “I, I need to find him, please.”

“Are you looking for someone?” Magenta Streaks asked, puzzled. Didn’t they understand? Couldn’t they recognise Logan was the great love of Roman’s life?

“Y-Yes, my boyfriend,” Roman choked out, barely pulling his tearing seams together and gathering his scattered wits. “We had a fight because I’m a bitch--”

Magenta streaks gave a sympathetic smile, reaching out their thin arms where only the tips of their fingers showed under a floppy sleeve. “Now, now, I’m sure that’s not--”

“It’s true!” Roman inisted, now that he started he didn’t know if he could stop pouring out his heart to this well-meaning soul who’d at least _tried_ to mask that they thought him insane. “He didn’t even kiss me goodbye and, and now I can’t find him and he probably hates me!”

Magenta Streaks sighed, arms reaching out further and patting the air as if to pacify a raging animal. Roman must have looked quite the sight; makeup-less and all rumpled. 

“Okay, calm down, maybe I can help,” they said. “What does he look like?”

“Beautiful!” sobbed Roman, ignoring the odd look thrown his way by the kid. “He’s the most beautiful sight I ever laid eyes on and,” Roman’s words withered on his lips as the corner of his blurred eyes caught a black shirt and a pair of khaki pants. A light went off in him; a thousand different sparks gliding behind his ribs. Logan, his sweet Logan, had come back for him. 

“...There he is!” he cried out. 

Magenta Streaks didn’t look convinced. They opened their mouth but Roman brushed past them, uncaring. Logan! Logan was there! 

He made for the glass doors with all the conviction of a drowning man struggling for breath and, completely oblivious to the fact he could knock them both into the wall of glass, threw his arms around his love’s neck. He pressed his face into the warm skin at his nape, hot air rushing out of him. “Logan! Logan, I’m sorry, I’m so--”

Logan broke away from him furiously and Roman’s heart sank. Could he be _that_ angry? As he alighted on the face he realised it wasn’t Logan at all. The blue eyes had too much space between them and his snarling lips revealed yellowing teeth. Narrow shoulders and muscle-corded, two beefy arms launched into the air. 

“Dude, what the hell!?”

“I, I’m sorry,” Roman sputtered, embarrassment and panic heating up his face as he stepped back. “I just,” he swallowed with an audible click, throat dry. “I thought…”

Cutting the artist off, a woman in her mid-twenties holding a blanket-swaddled baby screeched at him. “Get away from my husband, you queer freak!”

Roman flinched. 

‘Excuse me, you bigoted bitch, but could you care to wipe your baby’s running face? And also lose that top. Purple is so not your color,’ is what he would have said if the couple hadn’t already left and if he wasn’t so distraught. 

Roman sighed, carding the tangled mess of his hair into something more presentable as he attempted to control the pacing of his breaths and get a grip. People were staring at him again but the numbness he felt as the chasm of his chest opened further had him easily dismissing the fact. He stepped out of the supermarket and cold air barreled towards him. 

Out of habit, Roman cupped his hand and hooded it over his eyes to look up at the sky. It frowned down on him in disapproval, the slabs of bright orange fading up into a dreary lilac. Roman usually loved sunsets. The sun dipping down to the horizon informed him of the day’s ending and that the time to relax had come. 

If he hadn’t been so hot-headed, this would have been around the time when he and Logan would settle on the couch with a glass of wine each and a snack, arguing over what to watch.

Roman would hardly pay attention to the movie, documentary or whatever they ended up putting on because when his back pressed into Logan’s chest, his scalp running with pleasant tingles as the chemist absently stroked his hair and thumbed at his hip, when puffs of Logan’s breath would hit the back of his neck and warm his whole body, there was no place he’d rather be. 

Roman had the fundamental feeling he had forgotten something. Perhaps his sanity. 

He walked through the parking area in a haze, eyes downcast. His hair stuck to his head in the growing humidity, skin misting slightly. The artist sniffed. He felt a prickle of slight resentment that Logan had just left him but it winked out before it could give Roman any energy. 

He deserved this. He deserved to futilely scour the cars for Logan’s and then walk to the nearest bus station where he’d probably find two strangers making out and lean his temple to the pole with closed, tear-leaking eyes. He vaguely remembered the weather forecast mentioning rain at some point before he left for work. But that wasn’t it either.

The sea of metal hunks in front of him stared impassively outward, waiting for their respective owners in stoic silence. Roman envied them. Why couldn’t he have been some expensive car or a decorated wall hung with string lights? 

The artist dragged his eyes up from the floor. 

Brown minivan; probably belonged to a soccer mom. 

Mercedes benz; a rich businessman who thought of frowning as a fashion statement. 

Red Toyota corolla; a spoiled brat with a valley girl accent called Britney. 

Black, rundown Spranza; a frugal skinflint, someone who’d dedicated his life to a field of science and cared about little else. Probably had a glamorous boyfriend he didn’t pay enough attention to.

Roman gasped, his neck snapping as he whipped it up and squinted at the reflective windows. Rain started to pound down on his head and Roman slowly approached to the beat of it. His dress clung to his chest uncomfortably, puffs of steam leaving his mouth and vanishing into thin air as he started running, running, running, and stopped.

What if this was another one of his semi-hallucinations lent by fantasy and desperation? He wouldn’t be able to stand it. 

But then he heard the door open and the rain pounded into his skull harder, his legs acting of their own accord as soon as he saw his man. 

His heels scratching along the asphalt road, the artist stumbled forward, his momentum unstoppable like his heart yearning to be free of his chest. Wrapping his arms around his wonderful chemist, Roman finally felt at peace. 

A beautiful moment Roman honestly thought that it would be a crime not to record followed: Logan reached out his arms and Roman sobbed in relief and happiness, infusing their kiss with longing and passion and desperate need as his shaking hand found Logan’s. They fell back onto the car seats. Soaking wet with his hair dripping and his face pressing into Logan’s, Roman pushed up the chemist’s glasses. 

He breathed Logan’s sharp scent in, running his hands down his back and sides. Behind Roman’s eyelids, sketching the masterpiece under him took form. The press of their lips and the curves and contours would be immortalised, everywhere they were joined, a testament, a vow. 

Roman’s free hand gripped Logan’s thigh, tracing its outline, the hard and soft muscle. He bit down on Logan’s lip as he imagined he would and as Logan gasped and cupped his face, the simmering fire in Roman’s gut put itself out.

The artist rested their foreheads together, rubbing their noses as he breathed out, “Logan.”

“Roman,” Logan said in turn.

“I thought,” Roman took a deep breath, propping himself on his forearms to look into Logan’s subdued, gentle eyes. He couldn’t resist kissing each of them before speaking. “I thought you’d left.”

Logan shook his head, smiling a smile like the sun after a storm. “I was waiting right here, beloved.”

“Logan,” Roman said again, grasping his boyfriend’s hand like a lifeline. “I’m sorry, I, I was so stupid, I didn’t mean to--”

“Not now, Roman,” Logan said simply, interlacing their fingers as he cupped Roman’s cheek in a surprisingly familiar tenderness. “I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t have been quite so... blunt.”

Roman smiled, looking out the window for just a moment, catching the gentling rain as it fell down softer. “You’re terrible, aren’t you?”

“Truly dreadful,” Logan agreed. “Can you ever forgive me, my light?”

“Never,” Roman said in the same tone he would have said always, always and forever.

Logan hummed, running his thumb across Roman’s obligingly parting lips. “Allow me the honour of changing your mind then.”

The artist threaded his fingers around the hairs at his chemist’s nape, tugging slightly, his eyes dancing. “Only because I’d like to see you try, you miserable skinflint.”

And then Logan was surging up and pulling Roman’s laughing mouth to his, switching them over, shutting the door with his leg and pressing his artist’s head against the glass.

Time passed with them feeling each other’s solidness, the surety of their chests flushed together and their hearts beating in tune. Roman believed that even with the terrible angle, his elbows digging into the rim of the closed windows as Logan shackled his hands up against the glass, cramped in the tight space between his chemist and the leather seats, it would be alright between them.

The artist was just getting Logan to acknowledge the lustful growl riddling his voice, licking into his chemist, when they broke apart. Roman whined at the sudden loss of contact, frantic hands grasping at Logan’s shirt collar and pulling him close. “Why’d you stop?”

Logan pressed his lips to Roman’s forehead, slipping further back out of the artist’s hazy, desire-driven reach. “Parking lot, dear.”

As Logan started up the car they separated completely except their hands which intertwined. Roman marvelled at the warmth spreading from Logan’s sea sand skin against his own earthy brown, pressing down his thumb into the inside of Logan’s wrist. 

Their eyes met and they smiled. Roman bit his kiss-swollen lips, delighting at Logan’s mussed hair, his flushed cheeks, the unevenness of his tie. Feeling like he was harboring a precious secret, the most magnificence this universe had to offer, the only one who could see Logan like this grinned out at the passing trees. 

This wasn’t their first argument, nor would it be their last but they wouldn’t let go; they’d work it out. Roman knew they’d have to talk eventually, that he’d have to start getting his act together. Lucid for once, he understood he and Logan’s problems wouldn’t automatically vanish, that things would be difficult but he felt whole and full, the breaths grounded in his lungs pumping in and out of him evenly at last. He needed nothing but the knowledge they’d be together in it all. He was willing to put in the effort, because no materialistic object could match what he felt for Logan. 

And yet the annoying ‘you forgot something’ feeling didn’t leave him. Logan was right there beside him, what more could he possibly want?

It came to him as they pulled up in front of Roman and Virgil’s shared apartment, the artist’s phone lighting up with his roommate’s caller ID.

“I forgot the groceries,” Roman mumbled after he’d hung up, closing his eyes. 

Logan took the key out of the ignition, his relaxed smile glued to his dear face. “What was that, love?”

Roman’s heart stuttered as Logan brought their hands up, brushing the artist’s knuckles, calling him to earth. “Roman?”

“Nothing,” Roman breathed out, eyes fluttering open as if waking up from a dream. “It’s not important.”

Roman watched all that food and those expensive gifts he didn’t need melt and swirl into a shapeless puddle. He could make do without champagne, he could look up Japanese recipes online, he could find a thousand different excuses for Logan to stay with him till the sun rose.

Soft candlelight glowed across the old cloth covered table in the middle of Virgil and Roman’s dining room. 

Virgil, sensing the impending events, retreated into his MCR shrine and left the two lovers at their table. 

A coffee stain caught Roman’s eye and he rubbed at it with his thumb, smudging it into a yellowish blemish on the white linen. He sighed, lamenting his precious tea set cover that surely mourned him just as much back at that store. 

All thoughts of mats and ruined fabrics flitted away from Roman’s mind as his chemist followed him into the kitchen. He smiled to himself, arranging plain tea biscuits into a swirl around a round, non-confrontational china plate. Two gently invited arms wrapped around his waist and he pressed back, humming contendely as Logan nosed under his ear and planted a soft kiss there. 

“Love?” Roman squeaked as Logan dragged his lips down to his artist’s jaw. “Could you get some yogurt out of the fridge, please?”

Logan reluctantly slid away, his arms slowly brushing under Roman’s top, pulling the skin into goosebumps. 

The artist blushed a deep red and skittered off to the dinner table with the biscuits, careful not to disrupt the positioning of each one. As he placed the plate down, he reached with his other hand to adjust a rose in the flower arrangement, smoothing down a slightly wilted petal, settling the rose back a bit between the rest of the flowers to hide it. He stuffed his nose into the slapdash bouquet, trying to ignore the uneven rhythm of his heart and his heated face. 

Ever since they got back Logan had been _like that._ All quiet and sensual. It started to be a lot for Roman, a bit dizzying even. 

Thinking of Logan apparently materialised him out of thin air. A kiss dropped into the crown of Roman’s head and as he looked up, Logan took a seat and slid the strawberry yogurt cup towards Roman, while he’d selected a plain, flavourless one for himself. The artist always drizzled plain with honey and he didn’t understand how Logan could have it otherwise.

A water glass stood at each end of the table. Roman felt a little bad as the light from the candles caught the glasses’ rims, not that Virgil minded being left out of this. 

Logan raised his glass. “To frugality.”

“To frugality,” Roman begrudgingly intoned. 

Roman closed his eyes and gulped down the water, imagining it as the champagne he’d abandoned along with all its starry fizz. The water slid down his throat in one gulp and he, disappointed, struggled to smile up at Logan. 

The texture of the yogurt, grainy and smattered with strawberry pieces was as close as Roman would get to the truffles tonight. He dipped a biscuit in the pinkish goop and popped it into his mouth. Logan smiled disarmingly, reaching out to wipe off the creamy smear from the curve of Roman’s half-smile. Roman turned his head to the side and nipped Logan’s thumb, maybe a bit harder than necessary. 

Surprise flickered across the chemist’s expression but melted into that relaxed, easy going smile just as quickly. He dropped his hand and rested it against Roman’s. The artist fixed his eyes into what remained of his water, reaching for another biscuit. Distracted, Roman blushed as Logan started kissing the back of his hand, then each knuckle individually with a gentleness that ran shivers down his spine.

“Your skin smells positively divine, my light,” the chemist murmured against his boyfriend’s hand. 

“Are you just going to keep teasing me or actually--?” 

“What’s the rush?” Logan softly cut him off, velvety smooth voice besting any silk the artist could have bought. “We have all night.”

Roman instantly colored at the possibilities, nearly choking on thin air as Logan flicked his tongue out at Roman’s finger, certainly teasing now. 

“Stingy jerk,” Roman huffed to a musical chuckle across the table. He couldn’t be happier, truffle and champagne-less as he was. 

“Roman?”

“Hmm?” Roman hummed around a suggestively-licked spoonful of yogurt, not that the chemist noticed. He had that dreamy, blissful look in his eyes like he only got after a rewarding work week or an eventful night. 

The pause hung light around them, mingling with the empty yogurt cups and the scent of non-specific mixed flowers in the space between them. 

Logan swirled his thumb over the sensitive skin of Roman’s inner wrist, feeling out his rapidly spiking pulse. He said it wholeheartedly this time, a sincere confession, a sweet declaration, a promise. “I love you.”

~~*~~ 

**They had each other. There would be no exchanges. No Returns.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! This fic is my pride and joy so I’m so happy I could finally post it and see if ya’ll enjoyed as much as I enjoyed writing. Kudos and comments are immensely appreciated and I will love you forever if you do them. I hope the words are treating you well whether you’re reading or writing them, don’t forget to drink water, stay safe, k love ya bye! <3


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